


A How to be Interlude

by peet4paint



Series: How to be... [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Childbirth, Dubious Consent, F/M, Partner Betrayal, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-22
Updated: 2011-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-21 15:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peet4paint/pseuds/peet4paint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Puck becomes a father--and remembers the night it all started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A How to be Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> This contains some dubious consent sex between Puck and Quinn. It's not terribly graphic.
> 
> It also contains childbirth--again not terribly graphic.
> 
> This is a short interlude in the "How to be..." 'verse. I wanted to include it in the next story, but it really doesn't fit.
> 
> And yes, this does mean that I'm beginning to write the next story in "How to be..." Be prepared for this fic to take a bit longer than "How to be a Baby Daddy." RL is currently making me tear hair out.

Puck’s lucky. That’s what he is. Lucky. At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself, as Quinn tries to break every bone in his hand.

“That’s right Quinny. You’re doing so good. I’m so proud of you,” Mrs. Fabray says, tears streaking her cheeks. “You can do it! Just push!”

Ever since the reconciliation, Mrs. Fabray’s been over-mothering Quinn. Bringing meals to her in bed, giving her shoulder rubs, even rubbing the weird fishy-smelling cream onto Quinn’s belly.

Quinn’s been eating it up—she told Puck it almost makes up for the four months of neglect _and_ being forced to live with Franny and ‘that asshole Gregg’—but there are limits. At least, that’s what he figures it is when Quinn takes the cup of ice chips sitting on the table and throws it straight at Mrs. Fabray’s head.

But Mrs. F is a real trooper. She ducks just in time, and is up in plenty of time to talk Quinn through her next contraction. “That’s right, Baby. Push. You can do it. It’s time to meet your daughter.”

Quinn’s hand tightens on Puck’s, and that’s it, there’s definitely something broken now. “I hate you. You bastard, I hate you.” Her voice comes out strangled, words barely understandable.

The doctor says something Puck can’t understand—all fast syllables flying off his tongue. He wishes for a second he’d brought Santana along with them to Majorca. Then the doctor’s saying, “Push,” accent heavy but clearly understandable despite that.

Quinn’s face turns bright red, veins sticking out in weird places. She yells—volume just shy of a scream—and for some reason her hand loosens on his. Her hair isn’t perfect anymore, mussed and matted, sweaty like the rest of her. But somehow—somehow he thinks she’s never been more beautiful than she is at just this moment.

Time seems to freeze for a second—for an eternity. A moment held captive, Quinn’s body moving completely different from how it moved nine months ago. He remembers then, remembers what that night had been like.

…

How she’d been so afraid. How Finn had ditched her to do a group project with the new chick. How the new chick was hot, on fire with it, and Quinn had spent the night terrified that Finn was breaking up with her.

Puck hadn’t tried to get her drunk. He still doesn’t think she was drunk—thinks it’s just a lie she tells him to make him feel worse about himself. But when she’d looked up at him, tears in her eyes. When she’d said, ‘do you think I’m fat?’—what else could he do?

He’d said ‘no.’ He’d scoffed, said, ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ Said, ‘you’re the hottest girl in school—anyone who doesn’t know that is a moron.’

After that it’d been easy to get in her skirt. If he was a better person he never would’ve done it. He never would’ve kissed her, first on the cheek, then on the mouth. He never would’ve spent half an hour on her neck, making his mark (not that Finn ever noticed—the dumbass). He never would’ve done any of it.

And he never should’ve gone farther than that. Never. She wouldn’t take her clothes off. Said, ‘do it like this.’ Said, ‘I want to do it with our clothes on.’

If he was a smart man—if he was a good man—he never would’ve gone any farther, but Puck’s never claimed to be either of those things. He’d slipped her panties off, slipped a finger inside her, two. She’d wriggled, body writhing on the bed.

At the time he thought it was with want, but stupid as Puck is, he’s not that stupid.

It had been discomfort—maybe a little confusion. Quinn—she’d been a good girl. Before him—before Puck—she’d been the kind of girl who would never touch herself down there, let alone letting anyone else do it.

So she’d writhed, and he’d figured she was ready—hot for it.

She hadn’t told him she was a virgin.

…

That first push in—that first rush of blood in his ears—he knew. He knew. He knew he’d been wrong.

For a second—just a second—he looked at her and the two of them really saw each other. He saw how scared she was—how much it hurt.

God knows what she’d seen when she’d looked at him. But it made her close her eyes.

…

He’d tried to pull out. Opened his mouth to say something—something like trying to channel Finn, ‘cause fuck knew Puck didn’t know what to say. But as soon as he’d moved, as soon as he’d pushed up on his forearms—tried to get out in more than one sense—her eyes had snapped open.

When he’d looked at her then, he was back to looking at the cheerleader. At the person who was so put together, so perfect, there was no chance of anything being wrong. Ever.

She’d wrapped arms around his neck, tugged him down, back into her. Her legs had wrapped around his back until there wasn’t a chance for him to get away—wasn’t a chance for him to fucking move. ‘Where do you think you’re going, Puckerman?’ she’d said, voice coming out all coy.

He’d tried to be a good guy, then. Tried to do the right thing. Said, ‘Quinn.’

But she’d laughed at him, thrown her head back and laughed until he couldn’t be sure anymore. Couldn’t know which side of her was real. She’d said, ‘what’s the matter Puckerman—not man enough?’

And Puck, well he was only human.

…

It hadn’t been good. It hadn’t been good, and she’d blamed him for that. But Puck had been around the block enough by then to know it was never good at first.

He felt like hell, though. Not about Quinn, really. She’d asked him for it. But about Finn.

When Finn and Quinn got back together better than ever—when the new chick transferred a week later—went back to where she came from—it made the whole thing worthwhile. Almost.

…

The moment breaks. Quinn’s body curls back to the bed, stomach still too distended, still too tense.

He stares at her for a second—wishing he was a better man—wishing she wanted him.

Then he hears it.

It’s nothing like the movies. It’s not loud, first off. It’s not loud at all. And it doesn’t really sound human at all. It sounds kind of like an alien. Or maybe a kitten or something.

He turns. He turns and looks at the foot of the bed. At the little man they’ve been seeing for the past couple weeks in his white doctor’s scrubs now covered in a gross mixture of blood and something that looks like it’s straight out of the Alien franchise. And when he looks at the guy’s arms, at the little lump of flesh just lying there, he feels almost sick for a second.

There she is. There’s his little girl. And between once second and the next he has a whole other life that depends on him. There’s a whole other person in the world that needs him.

It feels like no time has passed at all. Like he’s only blinked. But he looks down at his arms, and there she is. The doctor’s saying something—but over the rush in his ears Puck can’t even tell if he’s speaking in English or not.

He looks at her, smiles at her. He says, “Beth. That’s my girl. That’s my Bethy.”

There’s more wetness on her face than there was a second before.

If it matches the wetness on his own—well there’s no one there to judge him for it.

+++


End file.
